What's Your Road, Man?
by L.S.H
Summary: In which Eames is feeling a bit too nostalgic for his own good, drinks too much liquor, smokes excessively and thinks too much.


Title: What's Your Road, Man?

Author: L.S.H

Pairing: Eames/Arthur and Eames/others

Warnings: Language, sexual content, nostalgia, slight hints of sex addiction and abuse of _On the Road_, _The Road _and _No Country for Old Men, _all which I beg your pardon for.

Summary: In which Eames is feeling a bit too nostalgic for his own good, drinks too much liquor, smokes excessively and thinks too much.

Notes: Because – hey, I'm feeling nostalgic, even though I'm only seventeen, missing the days in which exams didn't take over my life, cue deep sigh. I have read The Road and On the Road but have only seen the movie of No Country for Old Men I know it is disgraceful; it is next on my list after I finish reading Fight Club for the fiftieth time. I'm sorry if my British-ness comes across too much in this one, i.e. words spelt differently but I thought it would be safe since Eames is in fact British also (well English, but let's not get technical.) And I do not own any of the following books and of course Inception itself. Hope you all enjoy this and hopefully I haven't insulted any countries by my lack of geographical knowledge.

_People were always getting ready for tomorrow._

_I didn't believe in that._

_Tomorrow wasn't getting ready for them._

_It didn't even know they were there._

Cruising down some unknown highway in Pennsylvania with the smell of baked tar and burning hay does nothing at all to remind Eames of his childhood, yet somehow his train of thought manages to land on it. Eames is a private person by nature, you don't last long in his job by shouting intimate details of your past to every person you work with. Eames has lost count the amount of times he's got screwed over by people he has worked with before.

Yet there is something about the smell of warm apple pie which he had ordered with every cup of coffee he'd stopped for that reminds him of the days which him and his brother would argue over sizes of slices. He remembers fondly of times in which one would lick their finger and touching the slice, which took their fancy and finding joy in the other's cringe of annoyance and disgust.

He hasn't talked to his brother in six years.

And with the increasing interest in dream-sharing it looks like it's going to stay that way.

_What difference does it make after all? — anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven, for what's heaven? What's earth? All in the mind._

He ends up in bar outside some nameless town with one gas station and twenty diners. It's the middle of summer and the unbearable heat in the east coast gets the better of him. He's almost sweating in his suit and he's already missed his lunchtime coffee so he's in dire need of alcohol.

The bar is hazy with cigarette smoke and something richer, heavier which could only be cigars. It's not busy but Eames can see the state of the place isn't too quiet but he sneaks in without any curious glances. He slips into the bar stool; only another man is sitting near at the bar. Their eyes meet and Eames gives him a nod out of common courtesy and gets one in return.

"What's your poison?"

Eames almost chokes with laughter at how cliché and ridiculous the question sounds. Do people still even say that? Evidently so; because an impatient bartender is waiting for his answer.

"Rum and coke please."

.

.

He meets a redhead called Rita.

There is no doubt that she is very pretty, too pretty for this small town. Her voice has a subtle southern twang to it that anyone could easily miss but it has been drilled into Eames long ago not to miss these kinds of things. Her hair spirals downwards in what seems like never ending curls which remind Eames of paradox staircases. She has a habit of fiddling with a strand whenever she's talking like she wants to take the attention away from her face and Eames follows the movement. Her eyes are bright like any late twenty something would be expected of and Eames has to stop himself getting lost in the deep green which, he sometimes sees as a dark brown. She's thin not skinny and her legs are long and toned showed off by her skirt which in Eames option is a bit too short. Her short sleeved blouse however doesn't show off any cleavage at all and he smiles at her insecurity and familiarity of it and how she won't let it show. And when she laughs her shoulders shake and her head rolls back like she's letting her whole body be over taken by it and Eames has to smile at that.

He's close with a hand on her upper thigh below her skirt his head bowed like hers as she sips her cocktail through a straw, a cigarette in hand which he lit and got the whole conversation going. He can smell her perfume – channel nos5 and it stings his nostrils whenever he gets closer and he relishes in that along with the smell of fruity alcohol and cigarette smoke on her breath.

They're both laughing again with her hand on his chest, head bowed as if she's trying to keep herself steady. And he draws back to take a heavy drag of his cigarette and chuckles at the punch line of her joke coming out wrong.

She's married. He can see the pale line of where a wedding ring should sit and he can tell she's unhappy because there are no laughing lines on her face just frown lines and that gets another one of his little private smiles of familiarity.

The both end up in his crappy motel room and he has her pressed against the wall, sucking a mark into her neck, in till she's begging for more contact. And when he pushes her down onto the bed and cloths are scattered and thrown everywhere, he lingers longer on her thighs sucking more marks and sloppy kisses and her laughter is swallowed by her moans.

And the room is filled with moans and grunts (and somehow his hand brushes through her hair because he can't resist the painful feeling of the familiarity) and the momentary ripping of packaging and screaming of a name that isn't his.

In the morning he wakes not wanting to stir her, ignoring the throb of a hangover he clears out without a single glance. He pays for the room and heads to New York.

.

.

He gets the first flight out of New York but he doesn't know where he's going till the blonde woman at the desk asks him.

"Paris, I think."

The blonde laughs and it sounds half flirty half fake. "You don't sound sure."

He gives her one of his English boy smiles that he saves only for teasing.

"I never am."

_You forget what you want to remember, and you remember what you want to forget._

He dreams.

He dreams he and his brother Ben are watching reruns of Blue Peter with their shirts of their Sunday best rolled up, eating watermelon.

His mother is humming to some Beatles song and dancing around in her blue summer dress which she only saves for Summer Sundays and Dad's and her anniversary. Dad is sitting on his usual chair drinking cider and it smells like apple pie, cigarette smoke and honey sweet cider. And Ben is turning back to glare at mother for her embarrassing behavior and she just continues humming kissing his and Ben's head. Ben screws up his face and folds his arms like he can somehow will this sight of stupidity away and he rolls his eyes.

He hears the ding of the oven bell, the gleefully noises from his brother and father as they race to the oven in a flurry of laughter. His mother continues to hum.

He wakes to a hotel room, sleek with sweat and it takes him a few moments to remember exactly where he is, reaching for his handgun under the pillow.

It takes him even longer to remember what he dreamed about.

He hasn't dreamed like that in years. Scratch that.

He hasn't dreamed in years.

_Something, someone, some spirit was pursuing all of us across the desert of life and was bound to catch us before we reached heaven._

He eventually gets ready to leave Paris but he's been there so many times he isn't fazed by it.

He meets a French brunette named Marie at the airport. She uses too much product in her short hair and has a habit of running her hands through it. She's a workaholic that much is obvious, she is always tense when she sits like she would prefer to be moving around. She wears nice suits too and is all about practicality and has no imagination but Eames finds himself being attracted to that. And she says big words like specificity She orders the most expensive wine in the bar and swirls it around in her long pale fingers as she talks about the weather in Monte Carlo. She answers every question that Eames asks her with great detail and it's obvious she loves what she does. And at the end of the night she slips him her hotel room card leaving the invitation open and walks off and Eames watches her as she goes, her hips swaying in a teasing motion.

He's met a lot of women but none have made him smile so much with that strong sense of familiarity.

"So who is she?"

They've made a mess of the hotel room, cloths scattered everywhere, tables knocked over and he's still out of breath after laying in silence for fifteen minutes.

"You'll have to be more specific." He murmurs as he kisses the nape of her neck, teeth trailing over a hickey he gave her when they fooled around in the elevator. She passes him her freshly rolled cigarette and he takes a long drag as she leans back into his chest, a small smile of satisfaction on her face.

"The woman you're in love with."

That gets a laugh out of him and he takes another drag. "I don't know what you're taking about."

She chuckles, a hand going through her short now gel-less hair. "Please, you don't have sex like that and not be love with someone and I know you're type. You're not the kind of guy who falls in love at first sight."

"I'm unsure whether you're commenting or discouraging my technic sweetheart."

She laughs and her nose wrinkles up as she does. "Oh trust me it's a very good thing, mon cher."

He smiles passing her back the cigarette. He's not taken part in pillow talk in a long while. It's nice to have the conversation.

They're silent for a few moments and he continues to kiss and nip at her neck relishing in the little shivers he gets from her and slight friction of her body trembling against his.

"What's she like?"

And the question makes him smile against her shoulder blade. He doesn't answer at first and he hears a rustle of expensive bed sheets as she turns slightly.

"She is… smart." He says as he plants kisses on her shoulder working his way towards her collarbone. "Too bloody smart for her own good. She gets bashful so easily, I tease her frequently. Serious, oh yes very serious, never misses a thing, always catches every detail and that can be a right pain in the arse I must say."

Marie laughs and it sounds like bells, chiming softly.

"Sérieux s'il vous plait."

He nips the sensitive skin behind her ear and gets a whine out of her.

"All right then, not a bad cook—"

He jumps as Maries hits him and he can't help but laugh and she sticks her tongue out at him.

"Brave. So very brave, braver than anyone I've met. And loyal. Loyal to her friends. And the most bloody gorgeous thing I've ever seen."

They're silent. Nothing but their shallow breathing fills the room.

"Why so interested?"

And she smiles a beautiful smile which lights up her whole face and it blinds Eames slightly.

"I just wanted to know the woman who has you so obviously… what is that American saying—smitten?"

"Hmm."

"Mais c'est triste."

Eames rolls over so he's on top of her again, looking into her grey eyes. Her fingers stroke his cheek and he finds himself liking the intimate contact.

"Well we can't have a beautiful little thing like you being sad now can we?"

Her smile softens her feature and he presses kisses to the pads of her fingers.

"C'est triste parce qu'elle ne sait pas." Her fingers trace the lines on his face and he closes his eyes.

"You have so many scars, you deserve to be happy like any human being deserves and it's sad that all that relies on one person. It's sad how she has the power over your happiness and doesn't even know."

.

.

He leaves in the morning to catch an early fight. Marie forces him to take his number saying _next time you're in Paris give me a call._ And she kisses him on the cheek and laughs when she gets lipstick on it and rubs it away.

And she smiles sadly. "Promets-moi. Dites-lui de votre amour."

She kisses him again, on the lips, a soft peck.

"Adieu, Mr. Eames."

_We lay on our backs, looking at the ceiling and wondering what God had wrought when He made life so sad._

He gets a call from Cobb when he's in Quebec. He isn't expecting it and he almost is tempted not to take the call but that is before he realizes that he hasn't answered his phone in weeks and this isn't the first time Cobb has called.

"You're a very hard man to reach Eames. Fucking hell I thought you'd been captured by some of your friends."

"Your lack of confidence in me Cobb is always appreciated." Is his gruff response. It's two in the morning and Eames can hear his companion next to him stirring.

"Quel est-il?"

"Rien désolé, aller dormer." He says in his flawless French accent, voice heavy with sleep.

She turns back around, blond hair spread over the pillow falling to sleep instantly.

"I'm sorry." Says Cobb through the phone as Eames makes his way to the kitchen to get himself a drink. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything."

Eames snorts and doesn't bother to hide it. "Bloody right, you were interrupting sleep."

He's out on the balcony listening to Cobb talk about James and Phillipa and he's getting impatient because he wants to go back to sleep.

"Cut to the chase Cobb."

He hears him chuckle. "I've got a job." When Eames didn't say anything Cobb continued.

"Obviously I can't tell you any specific details right now, but I can tell you an old friend of mine got in touch. His job as well as the future of the company relies on getting this information. Insider trading within the company. I'd need you in Paris by the weekend."

"Who's the team?"

"All familiar faces, Ariadne, Yusuf and Arthur."

Eames sighs downing the rest of his drink. "Why not Harrison? He's closer and from what I hear an okay forger."

"I don't need an okay forger Eames I need the best."

"Flatterer."

There silent for a few seconds but Eames doesn't need time to think he knew the answer the second he heard Cobb's voice.

"Well, what do you say?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to decline your offer Cobb."

Cobb was never one for stunned silence so Eames isn't surprised when he answers right away, voice low.

"Don't think we've not been keeping an eye on you Eames, you've had a lack of activity lately."

"We've?"

He hears Cobb growl at the other end. "Don't play dumb with me Eames it really doesn't suit you. Are you in trouble?"

"Now what gave you that idea?"

There is silence again and Eames knows Cobb is getting tired of his bullshit.

"I just need some time Cobb."

"Don't think I won't get Arthur to knock some sense into you."

His throat burns but it's not from the alcohol, he closes his eyes and his voice is gruff and weak as he speaks before he hangs up and promptly throwing his phone at the wall.

"Call Harrison, Cobb."

_Life is life, and kind is kind._

He's standing in the streets of Paris.

He's the only one there, not a soul is out.

He is looking in a mirror, his own reflection staring back. He draws out memories of the last few weeks. His hair grows, spirals in endless curls, his face changes, paler, softer more puppy fat with rosy cheeks. He shrinks slightly, his muscular build crawling away to revels a woman's figure with long toned legs and small breasts. And then olive eyes are staring back at him without the brightness. He holds the shape for a minute fingers traveling over the face, frowning lines and the thin body, smelling the strong channel perfume and fruity cocktails.

He changes again.

He grows taller, hair shrinking back as it goes darker. Grey begins to spread from his pupil over the olive colour. His cheekbones become more defined, his eyes sharper, more lines on his face but with age. His hips get a little wider and his chest gets bigger. He trails his hand over the skin and freckles appear where he wants. He can smell champagne, smoke and the musky smell of sex.

There are others, the other women and men he's slept since he'd last practiced his forging but he can't always remember them as clearly because of the outrageous amount of alcohol he's consumed.

He changes one final time.

The hair stays the same colour, but shorter, pushed back by product. The figure changes to that of a thin man, toned arms, legs and torso. The eyes change to something like the olive green but it's darker, a chocolate brown. The skin is pale, the expression serious. The cheekbones are still defined and the face is untouched by wrinkles. The dimples that are rarely seen.

Arthur is staring back at him.

Darling Arthur with his long words, paradox staircases and three piece suits. His stance is more sniff his shoulders squared; it reminds him of his military days.

He closes his eyes and music fills the streets.

_Non, je ne regrette rien…_

_._

_._

He wakes up in a hotel to the sound of music in his ears, an IV in his arm and the sound of the PASIV whirling then shutting down.

_Je ne regrette rien…._

It's ironic because he regrets so much.

_Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life._

He finds himself in a small nameless café in Chicago waiting out the heavy rain. It reminds him of November in London when him and his brother would be forced to take the bus to school because their father was broke and couldn't afford a car.

He's eating his apple pie and sipping his coffee in the booth watching the people outside running around with umbrellas, a sea of grey when someone slides into the opposite seat.

He doesn't look away from the window to see who it is he can already smell the familiar cologne. He could come up with some witty comment or some sarcastic remark about the weather but instead he stays silent.

The man is first to break the silence.

"Hello Mr. Eames."

.

.

"It wasn't difficult to find you."

They're braving the rain, which has turned to a light drizzle. Arthur's coat is buttoned right up and the lower half on his face is hidden under his cashmere scarf, his nose peeking out slightly pink from the cold weather.

"Cobb tried to call you but you wouldn't answer."

Arthur's lost weight. It's only been eight months since the Inception job, which in dream-sharing line of work isn't very long. But they're a close team, always watching each other's backs without the other knowing during those times of being apart. Arthur is the one he's worked with the most along with Cobb second to Yusuf.

"Of course Ariadne had all kinds of crazy theories which didn't help."

It's not so much the words that catch his attention but it's the tone. Arthur has the facial expression of a sphinx when he wants but when Eames looks at him he can see the slight worry in his eyes, well more the relief now.

Eames doesn't relies he's staring at Arthur till he sees him blush ever so slightly. Interesting.

"You're being an idiot." Arthur says in his familiar matter to fact tone.

Eames snorts.

"So you _are_ coming to Paris."

"Look's like I don't have a choice."

Arthur grounds his teeth together; his cheeks still slightly pink possible from the cold.

"Then why the hell couldn't you have just accepted Cobb's offer and not acted like such a drama queen?"

Eames smiles for what feels like the first time in eight mouths. "Just testing something."

Arthur's chocolate brown eyes narrow and something that looks like an adorable pout comes across his face.

"You owe $700 for the fucking flight you made me take."

"I'm sure Cobb will pay you back since you're hear on his orders."

Arthur's shocked by this and Eames kind of feels bad because this is one of his least favorite expression on Arthur.

"I'm not here on Dom's orders." Arthur says quietly not meeting Eames's eyes.

"You're a good forger Eames, we need you on this one." _I need you. _

It's unspoken but it's there and Arthur still isn't meeting Eames's eyes. This is the closest he's going to get. This is the most he'll get out of Arthur. And fucking hell is he going to take it.

"Fancy a drink then?"

Arthur finally looks up but doesn't really look.

"No, I've got a flight to Zurich to catch in a few hours."

Eames nods understanding it is funny how fast it can go from one dynamic to all business with Arthur. Arthur passes Eames his plane ticket. Unlike Eames, Arthur isn't wearing gloves. His hands have gone red, even slightly purple even though they've been in his jacket pockets the whole time. Eames does the gentlemen thing of course.

"No." Arthur says firmly.

Eames thrusts the gloves into Arthur's hands relishing in the contact. "Take them."

"No."

"You'll need them I've heard the weather is particularly harsh in Switzerland."

Arthur opens his mouth to argue again but Eames speaks before he does.

"You can give me them back at the weekend."

The pout is on Arthur's face again but a small smile begins to grace the corners of his mouth. "Don't expect me to pick you up at the airport."

Eames laughs.

"I'll see you in Paris, darling."

.

.

He doesn't really feel like he's moved onto a better place or even found out some big secret about himself. By the time he gets into bed there aren't really any thoughts going around his head and he sleeps his usual dreamless sleep and when he wakes alone in the morning and the first rays of light are glistening through the curtains casting a slight light on the bed making the hotel room look like some sort of dream.

But the plane ticket on his bedside table gives him the peace of mind that it's not.

_The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream._

_End_

Translation: French to English

Mais c'est triste - But it is sad.

C'est triste parce qu'elle ne sait pas - It sad because she does not know.

Promets-moi Dites-lui de votre amouris. - Promise me. Tell her of your love.

Adieu - Farewell.

Quel est-il? - What is it?

Rien désolé, aller dormer - Nothing sorry, go to sleep.

I have been learning French since I was young but I can speak it alot better than I can write it! If I've done anything wrong (and annoys you to no end) tell me and I can change it.

I am considering writing a sequel if this gets a lot of positive feedback most likely from Arthur's point of view on the job in Paris. Jealous!Arthur maybe with a OC thrown in(?)


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